


Party of Three

by Lavanya_Six



Category: Worm - Wildbow
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crossover, Experimental Style, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-09
Updated: 2015-04-09
Packaged: 2018-03-21 23:50:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3707805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lavanya_Six/pseuds/Lavanya_Six
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Stick your fingers down your throat,</i> I think, <i>and do it RIGHT this time.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Alternate power set from _The Legion of Super-Heroes_ , post-Zero Hour edition.
> 
> Specifically Triad's power.

I stare down into the toilet bowl.

My body aches. A sour feeling within me demands release, but I have nothing left to gave on either end. I dared to try some lime jello for dinner and hadn't kept it down. I remember, vaguely, in the midst of my frenzy as the paramedics worked over me, emptying my bowels in my jeans. Hopefully I did that in the ambulance and not at school.

I breathe in, slowly.

I breathe in, savoring that telltale toilet bowl stench of stagnant water and caustic stain remover. My imagination, maybe, adds a hint of stale urine. I can't manage to rummage up the idea of shit. The hospital janitors are thorough. The toilet bowl and underside of the seat alike are immaculate.

It isn't enough to send me over the edge.

My grey stock hospital t-shirt clings in spots to my slimy skin. Both my hands are clenched so tightly that the knuckles are bloodless. I know what I have to do. I tell myself it will help.

Finally, courage mustered, I jam two fingers down my throat.

I gag.

I retch.

Nothing. Just a wad of phlegm.

Wiping a salvia-slick hand on my sweatpants, I continue to huddle over the toilet for several minutes, knees aching. I don't think I could muster the energy to stand. Walk back to my bed? That might as well be on the Moon.

_Just lie down here,_ I think. _Get some sleep._

_Stick your fingers down your throat,_ I think, _and do it RIGHT this time._

My ears buzz with more than the hum of the overhead lights. I stare down into the toilet bowl. My exhalations send ripples across the shallow water, disturbing my reflection. I see... There isn't just one of me, you see. There are— in the bowl's water I see—

Myself.

Staring down into that toilet.

From the side, where I-Taylor squats in the bathroom doorway.

The transition is instantaneous. The impossible doesn't stop there.

Across from me-Taylor on the far side of bathroom, behind the girl huddling beside the toilet, is another one of me-us.

Three Taylors. Three of me.

I-Taylor stares back at the furthest copy. It's enlightening to see myself-her straight on. She-I look _awful_. Both my-our doppelgängers do, really. Split ends riddle their-our dark curls. Hints of blossoming pimples are apparent all around their-my mouth, presumably from where all the snot and tears have gathered from when we-I were trapped inside—

I-Taylor shudders at the memory.

Shoving those dark thoughts away, I-Taylor probe my upper lip. My-Taylor's fingertips find hints of stiff hot swells beneath the skin. Pimples. Except I-Taylor can't mind breaking out too much, because I-she have a bigger worry.

Neither of my-Taylor's reflections mimic the action.

We-I all stare at one another.

Slowly, hesitantly, I-Taylor reaches out and pokes at the Taylor-me beside the toilet. The universe doesn't explode. That is a check in the plus column. This feels too real to be a dream. Which meant—

"I—I'm a cape?" Taylor-me says, preempting me.

Temples suddenly pounding with blood, I-Taylor feel dizzy. The idea is too crazy. Too big. A cape? Holy cow.

"I'm a cape," Taylor-me repeats slowly.

Overwhelmed, I-Taylor tackles Taylor-me with a hug. Our-my third iteration scoots back out of the way. My-our other self stiffens in my arms, but I-Taylor holds on, burying moistening eyes in the crook of her-Taylor's neck. My mind spin with the possibilities. I-Taylor feel woozy.

Weakly, Taylor-me returns the hug.


	2. Chapter 2

In Brockton Bay, winter is more darkness than snow. Danny never really appreciated that truth until he went to college in Boston. There, the snow really piles up. In his hometown, the ocean waters make the weather milder year round, if drier than maybe Cape Cod. Or so he's heard. Danny's never been there.

It's already dark when Danny leaves work. That's January for you. The roads are clean. A brief uptick in the weather has already melted most of the snow from New Year's, leaving only the ice from what used to be the bottom of mounds. He still has to drive slowly in the final leg of his commute, though. The city hasn't replaced any of the dead streetlight bulbs in Danny's neighborhood. But they will soon. They always do, eventually.

There's no missing their home despite the spotty darkness of his neighborhood. It's lit up. Every room on both floors blazes with lamplight. It's a bit wasteful on Taylor's part. All the electricity spent on only one per—

Danny catches himself.

The drapes are also drawn. Unsurprising, even if it is nighttime. Once or twice in the past week, Danny's slipped away from work to surprise Taylor with lunch. Their drapes are always drawn shut. He used to wonder why she closed them after he left for work, but he suspected the answer. After all, the hospital said that no one visited Taylor besides him and the police. No teachers. No classmates. Not even Emma. Danny knows they've drifted apart since starting high school, but still. 

The truth turned out to be better and worse. 

Taylor isn't afraid. 

Taylor just doesn't want anyone catching her using her power.

Stepping through the garage's side door, Danny finds their house is alive with more than light. Some pop song is playing loudly upstairs. The rich odor of sizzling pork fills the downstairs. There are hints of olive oil and simmering tomatoes too. Taylor is making his favorite meal: pasta tossed with sliced sausage.

Danny frowns.

With everything going on, he's had to cut back luxuries. 

"Hey!" Taylor calls out from around the corner, in the kitchen.

"How was your day?" 

"The usual!" comes the only reply.

"Same here."

Danny hesitates, wondering how to say what needs to be said, but his discontent quickly collapses into a sigh. For however much of her own money Taylor has spent on dinner, and it has to be a lot for a girl with no job and no allowance, at least she got out of the house for once.

_Or she used her power,_ he thinks an instant later.

Danny rans a hand through thinning hair.

Smoothing out his expression, he rounds the corner—

—only to promptly halt. 

Taylor, wearing an apron, taps a wooden spoon hard against the edge of her sauce pan. She half-glances over her shoulder. "I thought we could serve ourselves from the pots?"

Danny nods. "Saves on dishes to wash."

Satisfied, she refocuses on the stovetop.

The soft bubbling of red sauce fills the air. 

Between them, crowding the kitchen's center, is their table. Taylor has moved it out from its normal spot against the wall. Plates, glasses, and silverware are set for four people. She even brought up the extra chair from the basement. Danny can't remember the last time they entertained that many people. Whenever Kurt and Lacey last came around, or perhaps even the Barneses. Years. 

Danny shifts his weight from one foot to the other. "So, uh, is this going to be a recurring thing?" he asks her turned back.

"Is that okay?" she replies evenly.

Taylor is wearing a banana yellow apron pitted with faded stains. Only that brightness sets it apart from her junky dark green t-shirt. Her black mesh shorts have her junior high school's logo on them. Danny can't remember the last time Taylor showed that much bare skin. 

"T—"

He stops himself.

Is this even his daughter?

Maybe he's misremembering. Clothesare clothes. It wasn't until yesterday that Taylor's fashion taste became meaningful to him. He could ask her to turn around, check her face... but...

"I'm going to change," he says. "Don't want to get sauce on this."

"Sure."

Danny ducks upstairs. 

The radio is playing in Taylor's room. The door is closed. 

Meanwhile, shower is running in the bathroom.

In his and Annette's bedroom, he strips off a wrinkled dress shirt and throws it on the pile for the cleaners. Today's khakis he hangs in the closet. He'll wear them in two or three days so nobody will catch on. With a quick ironing they'll be almost as good as new, which will save money. After a second wear it'll finally be off to the dry cleaners.

Money.

It's like poking a sore tooth. Even his dry cleaning has to be planned for these days. God knows what their legal bills from the school will be, or the hospital, and if Winslow will even—

Danny takes a breath.

After considering and dismissing a quick shave — his five o'clock shadow won't ruin his daughter's dinner plans — Danny pulls on a clean t-shirt and blue jeans. At least his clothes will be comfortable.

Stepping out in the hallway, he nearly collides with Taylor. 

She has a large white tower wrapped around herself. Their eyes meet. Danny's jaw still clutches a little at the sight of them. He can't help it. Those bullies gave her a concussion when they shoved her into that locker, bruising one eye in the process. The injury left her with mismatched irises: one green like his, the other a watery blue. 

Taylor was lucky not to suffer vision loss or blindness; not that she walked away otherwise unscathed. Still, Danny never thought he would be glad for the sight of his daughter's newly mismatched eyes. They let him tell Taylor apart from the others. 

"Hey, dad." She tugs her towel tighter. "Um, can I get by?"

"Oh!" He stands aside. "Sorry. Kind of late for a shower?"

Taylor tries her doorknob. Frowning, she knocks. "I went running." 

In this neighborhood? At night? 

"Well, I tried to," she adds sheepishly. "I didn't get far. HEY!"

The bedroom door swings open, and one of Taylor's copies steps out. Music blares into the narrow hallway at ear-piercing levels. "Seriously! Show a little pa—oh hey, Dad!" Taylor steps around her duplicate, and closes the door, leaving her out in the hall. "Hey!"

"Changing!" Taylor's muffled voice calls back.

"It's nothing I haven't seen before!"

There's no reply. A moment later, the bedroom's radio cuts out.

Taylor's copy pivots on one heel. Spinning around, he catches her rolling her eyes. They're both blue. He checks just to be safe. "How was your day? It was really boring here. I forgot how there's never anything good on daytime TV. I tried re-reading my old Maggie Holt books, because it's been a few years, and wow those goblins are a lot less..."

The copy leads the way downstairs, gushing all the while. Her blue t-shirt rides up a few inches. Not because it's risqué, but because it was meant for a smaller girl. The logo for the Popham Hill summer camp. 

Danny remembers Taylor practically swimming in that shirt, it was so long on her. That was... not quite two years ago? 

No. It had to be longer.

Tay—the one manning the kitchen is busy straining pasta. All the drinks are already poured. Neither he nor Taylor actually have to do any work. It's handy, he'll admit, if a little unsettling.

"Which one of you was sent to the grocery store?" he asks.

"All of us!" the blue-shirted one says. "You should have seen the looks we got. Like people have never seen triplets before."

Ice water dribbles down the back of Danny's neck. "You what?"

Glasses clink against plates as the copy in the ratty green tee makes room for the bowl of noodles. "She's pranking you. We recombined."

"Oh." He glances at the blue-eyed copy. To her credit, that one wilts a little. "Cabin fever?"

"Kinda, yeah."

That's a yes and a 'stop asking'. 

So he stops, because it's almost like Taylor asking.


End file.
